


this, the world

by houndstooth



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Other, Self-Reflection, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houndstooth/pseuds/houndstooth
Summary: i shall give it to you.pieces for ffxivwrite2020; rating and tags subject to change!prompt #19:where the heart is.this is as close to home as he’ll ever be.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Elidibus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22
Collections: #FFxivWrite2020 Final Fantasy 30 Day Writing Challenge





	1. prompt #1: crux (emet-selch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the creation of a constellation for a dear friend.

He truly had no need to. 

Atlas had stepped down from the Convocation when they had been in their most dire straits, the destruction of the very star looming over their heads. It was only a matter of time before Amaurot was swept up in a wave of rot and destruction, and infernal creatures brought to life by the very magicks that had given them myriad concepts and creations to benefit society. 

Emet-Selch had never asked him his reason, and for now, he would never know. They had been close, though, and well, he could assume and postulate Atlas’s reasons all he'd wanted — apprehension with the plan to rewrite the laws of reality through the creation of Zodiark, disagreement with the heavy cost to ensure the Zodiark plan worked, a deep remorse for the people that had already been lost to the calamity and that he could not have saved — his own home included.

And now, he too had been sundered — broken and scattered across the fourteen shards that now comprised the world, memories of a better and kinder age lost and forgotten. 

But there would be enough time to reminisce. There would be enough time to truly steel his heart and dedicate his life to restoring everything dear that had been lost to him, Atlas included. 

Emet-Selch closes his eyes and concentrates. 

_Herein I commit the chronicle of the traveler. Shepherd to the stars in the dark._

The thirteen had had their memory crystals created and imbued with memories of when they had been whole. It would be enough for their sundered selves to be made whole again. The Convocation would be reborn and the work to unbind Zodiark from His prison and undo Hydaelyn’s damage to their star would continue apace. 

_Though our world be sundered and our souls set adrift, where you walk, my dearest friend, fate will surely follow._

Mayhap this is selfish of him. No, it _was_ — as Atlas had given up his seat and they had had no time nor wherewithal to fill it, a crystal for the seat of the Fourteenth should not be made. His memories, his work, his fondness for the paths that took him all over their star and connected him to its inhabitants, would all be lost.

_For yours is the Fourteenth seat—the seat of Azem._

And yet… 

Emet-Selch opens his eyes and stares at the crystalline creation in his hand. This crystal he would keep close. He had already decided that it would not be prudent to try and raise Atlas to his true potential; his shards would remain ignorant and short lived creatures, bound to this pale imitation of a better world. 

_And when we meet again, it will be to travel the world together, as you have always wanted to._


	2. prompt #2: sway (specific wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a reflection on emet-selch’s revelation about the murals in the qitana ravel.

Still, Emet-Selch’s words echo in his head. The revelation that Hydaelyn and Zodiark were primals had stunned them all — even Solais, though for reasons that probably differed slightly from the rest of the Scions. For him, it was confirmation of that small sliver of uncertainty he had held deep within himself and had only become more and more acute the longer he kept on fighting in Her name. 

Amid all the fighting and the accolades and the building up of a legend to serve as an inspiration to those who needed it, Solais had wanted to shy away from it all.

_You shouldn’t look up to me._

_I don’t deserve your admiration._

_Why do you continue to believe in me?_

And deep down, he had always wondered: _why him?_

And now, it seemed, it had not so much been a choice but a responsibility thrust upon him by the selfsame influence he had been brought on to oppose with all that he had, and more. 

He stares out into the forests from where he had seated himself, away from the more populated corners of Fanow, with a sense of budding disquiet sitting heavy in his chest. 

The Scions… everyone, really, had sacrificed so much for him. All they had gone through after being pulled here by the Exarch was proof of that. What they were doing now, helping to bring back the First from the brink of destruction, Solais certainly could not have done alone. 

But they had not been called by Her, blessed by Her — _chosen,_ though now the word feels an odd choice to describe it — and that made all the difference.


	3. prompt #3: muster (elidibus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the emissary considers his foe.

It is the Warrior’s gaze, full of pity and regret, that Elidibus still feels focused on him as he teleports himself back to Emet-Selch’s Amaurot. 

His hands curl into tight fists, nails biting into his palms. To have that pity directed at him, an _olive branch_ extended as if he was to put their history aside and take it after all he had done — it had made Elidibus want to laugh.

He had no reason to expend the effort to understand them. Neither did they have the right to attempt to do so with him. 

The First’s beloved hero did not deserve to regret how his hands were stained with his brethren’s blood. He did not get to wish it could be different between them after Emet-Selch had foolishly, _foolishly_ let himself be led astray by ‘cooperating’ with them, leaving Elidibus alone to complete their work. This regret, this pain; it was not histhat it should color his words and actions, and make him believe him and those in his company capable of reaching out to him after all this. 

What would that accomplish? He opposed him in every which way. He was dedicated, as much as Elidibus was, to his chosen path. And until one of them drew their last breath, they would continue to be in conflict with one another. There was no purpose to reconciliation. There was no need for _anything_ — whatever or _whoever_ it was that Emet-Selch had seen in him, however he had reasoned it to himself in order to act in such a way, it had led to his death. 

Elidibus would not make the same mistake. 

He would not let their duty be consigned to oblivion. He would not let their world be forgotten and overwritten by this one, paltry imitation that it was. He would not let this hollowness in his chest sway him from his course. 

His duty as Emissary required it: the Warrior of Darkness _must_ perish. 

So, let the Exarch enjoy what little time left he had with his ‘hero’. Let them conspire and do their utmost to oppose him; he would meet their challenge and strike back a hundredfold. The world — _their_ world, the one that he and his had worked tirelessly to restore, the one they had sacrificed _so much_ to save — could not suffer the Warrior of Darkness’s existence any longer.

 _He_ could not suffer the Warrior’s presence any longer. 

Not when they have taken _everything_ from him. 


	4. prompt #4: clinch (specific wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as a consequence of being her chosen, you fight until you succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warning: descriptions of violence below**

It is hot, unbearably so, and the Lord of the Inferno bears down upon you with all of his might. There is a seething fury that strengthens his attacks, that nearly pushes you into the fiery ring of death that bounds your fight over and over again. 

Anger that he could not claim you as one of his own.

Anger that you were not just protected, but _claimed_ by another. 

His maw opens to release a stream of fiery death that you narrowly dodge it; roiling heat snatches the air from your lungs as it passes by far too close for comfort. 

The shadowed sun stares down at you, and you are certain that you will die. 

You are certain that you will die, somehow; burned to ash or clawed to ribbons or driven through by one of his infernals nails to suffer a slow and agonizing end at only 23 summers and the brief thought that your parents, an entire sea away, would not know it. 

The flames roar; the air shimmers in the heat; Ifrit swears that he will turn your very soul to naught but ash—

And yet, you do not die. 

The Lord of the Inferno is felled and another crystal claimed, the second of many to come.

 _I did not die,_ you think, as the heat dies down and cool relief washes over you.

It is a comforting thought. It made the idea of facing the next primal to be summoned by a beast tribe a little less daunting.

In the darker corners of your mind, though, you cannot shake a faint feeling of unease. For the most part, you had gotten away with minor injuries. You were alive—whole and hale with the faint taste of bitter smoke on your tongue—but that couldn’t be right.

There’s an odd prickling on the back of your neck. Yes, the more you think about it, the more you’re certain: you _did_ die. 

Many, many times. 

They were naught but faint echoes, at this point; you could remember the _sensations_ , and not how they had each played out.

An oppressive heat had consumed you. Claws sharp as steel had torn through armor, skin, muscle, bone with terrifying ease. You had been overwhelmed; too much blood lost and your vision blurring and your strength failing and the sharp clatter of your weapon against the earth as it had slipped from your grasp. 

You had _lost._

And yet, _here you were._


	5. prompt #5: matter of fact (specific wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is supposed to be a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poetry this time! 😎

there is

supposed to be a blessing 

(somewhere).

he finds it hidden amidst the dirt and weeds,

the blood and bodies,

the pain and heartache.

it is small and 

fits in the center of his hand

he holds it close, even though

he knows

_i will lose it, someday._

(this is a promise,

not a concern.)

this is

supposed to be a _blessing:_

being alive

when others are not.

being saved

while others are not.

being _you —_ no,

being _it_ — 

their hero,

their legend,

their inspiration. 

(Her _champion_.)

_for without you, where would we be?_

that is 

_supposed_ to 

be

a 

blessing. 

...

(it is, it is, _it is—_ )


	6. prompt #6: free day (atlas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> atlas has seen many civilizations rise and fall in this lifetime, and will continue to see many more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general musings/thoughts/what have you on an au where azem was not sundered! i’ll definitely write more on this idea...

There is no Amaurot to return to anymore.

And even though he has always been a traveler, a wanderer who followed the sun during the day and the moon at night, Atlas has always had a _home_ to return to. 

No longer.

The Convocation had been such a place to him, aside from Amaurot itself. A home within a home. A home he had made the difficult decision to cast aside. 

The millennia blur and blend together, and he lives through it all. Never settling. Never staying in one place for too long. Never reaching out beyond his means or station as the era calls for it. 

Religions are built and destroyed, absorbed and disseminated through the lands by their followers. Wars are won and lost, history written and perpetuated by the victors of these conflicts. Nations and civilizations rise and rise and rise, their tall towers reaching to the clear skies — a measure of their knowledge as this sundered mankind continues to grow and build, and continues to relearn what had once been innate to every being on this star — and they fall just as quickly, guided to ruin by shadows unseen. 

And every so often, despite knowing what awaits him, Atlas finds himself drawn to the sundered and their bustling cities. Time and time again, as if they could fill this ache inside of him. 

As if they could replace what he had lost. 

Never do they truly compare to Amaurot. Not in the slightest, really, and yet Atlas finds himself craning his neck to stare at the structures that tower above him anyway. There is still that familiar sense of awe that plucks at his heartstrings every time, bringing to mind the emotions he had felt when he himself had first entered Amaurot. 

Even sundered, these moments of cooperation he was able to witness between the people made it easier to deal with the heartache. 

(Even if such things were possible by the careful guidance and honeyed words of his former colleagues.)

If he closes his eyes, he can still think of its skyscrapers that seemed to extend on forever such that they really would touch the sky, of its carefully laid streets and paths and blocks once so committed to memory he could walk them with his eyes closed, of its shining lights that illuminated the windows of every building once night had fallen. 

But Amaurot is gone — that _world_ is gone, torn asunder by a conflict that perhaps could not have ended any other way but with such retaliation, and he has to live with the pieces of it that are left. Commit it to memory, ensure it does not fall to rot and ruin like he has seen these cities who fail to stand to the passage of time. 

Even if he is the only one to bear such records for the rest of time. 

The others — and he cannot stop the frown that flickers across his face as he thinks of them — had become consumed by their desire to bring back the past. It was hurting them; mayhaps they themselves could not see it, but Atlas could. This... single-mindedness was ever so slowly tearing them apart.

Just as it had in Amaurot.

He leaves once the sun starts to lower in the sky, his nostalgia somewhat satiated. With each step, the city turns smaller and smaller behind him.

“Your work again, Hades,” Atlas murmurs to himself. It had his influence all over it. He glances back, the onset of the sun falling below the horizons dusting the buildings in a warm, orange glow. The lights of the city had flickered to life, all of them bright and easily seen from a distance. A familiar beacon of light; it called to the weary and the adventurous, the lost and the inquisitive. 

It called even to him.

A soft smile curves his lips. “And brilliant, as always.” 

He is unsure if it will still be here when he next returns. 

Atlas turns his attention back to the road ahead and continues to move. He passes by travelers in the road, no doubt seeking to place roots in that shining city or even to merely pass through on their way to a much farther place. He could not stay there, as much as he wanted to — or _believed_ he wanted to. He had brushed shoulders with the others too often to think of staying in one of their manufactured cities. 

Everything would appear perfect at first glance. The city would prosper and build itself into a place known even amongst the most far flung parts of the land. In time, though, all the carefully hidden cracks of discord would begin to show themselves.

One little push, and the dream that had been seemed too good to be true would burst. 

And years later, when the people flocked to the next budding town of promise, the cycle would begin anew. 

With lives as short as theirs, they were liable to forget what had caused it. What they did remember became warped and twisted over time. They picked and chose what to keep and what to discard. 

Above all else, mankind lived their lives free of the knowledge he had — of what had come before, and the agonizing way it had almost come to an end. The sickness that had consumed their world from the inside out, an unavoidable wave of doom that swallowed all in its wake. The sacrifices that had been made to ensure their star lived on, and the conflict that had arisen when the cost had become far greater than they could have imagined. 

And that which had come after the dust had settled — this world, and the thirteen others that reflected it. 

And, oh, how Atlas envied them for their ignorance. 

How often it was that he wished that, in that instant, he too had been fragmented. Scattered across the shards. Free to live a new life unbothered and unburdened. 

(But through difficult paths does the traveler ever walk on.)


	7. prompt #7: nonagenarian (ardbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ardbert, and what little remains.

There is little kindness beneath these familiar skies overrun with a veil of cold, shimmering light. 

Ardbert knows, for he has spent decades wandering what remains of the lands he had once traveled through with his companions. 

The Light bears down upon what the Flood did not drown with no mercy. The Sin Eaters sup upon the aether of the defenseless, and of those that had tried to save them. While many of the creatures are destroyed, many more undergo the transformation themselves, and emerge as an abomination of Light. 

It is the same everywhere. 

It is the same over and over again, from the years that have passed and the years that have yet to come. 

He watches the community around the tower of crystal grow and fight for their lives. The dispirited and despondent flock to its gates. The hopeless and tired see enough of _something_ in it that they, too, are drawn to the bustling city. 

It takes all. It turns none away. 

_How much longer,_ Ardbert wonders, staring up at the tower as it scrapes the heavens, _will you be able to hold onto your hope?_

* * *

His listless wandering land him on the familiar shores of Kholusia. The Light hangs overhead like a curtain of quiet doom. If he is still, he is sure he can it: an echoing shine that cuts deep into his soul.

A flicker of recognition as he looks around: _home._

But he could not return to it. Not like this, and certainly not after what he’s done. 

A town of decadence rises before him, a splash of vibrant color against such a bleak backdrop. Below, a shanty town has sprouted in its shadow. It has grown over the years, and people have come and gone. The lucky get to walk the course, entering through tall gates to enjoy a new life of splendor. The unlucky wait for their chance to revel in decadence before the end. 

He watches with both disgust and resignation weighing heavily in his chest, torn that it has finally come to this.

Perhaps he deserved this. A final opportunity to see what destruction and death would be wrought upon what remained, and being powerless to stop it. 

_Your time has not yet come,_ Minfilia had said. Her words had echoed in his thoughts for so long. 

When, then? When would it come? How much longer would he have to agonize over it all, and watch it all turn to nothing before him?

How much longer would he have to struggle with this overwhelming sense of powerlessness? His... his shame?

He was not sure how much more of this he could take. 

He was not sure what would be left of him, come the end.


	8. prompt #8: clamor (elidibus/wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [elidibus/wol]  
> the beginning of... something—elidibus isn’t sure, yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first wol, not the current one—!

“What is it? You seem troubled.”

“It is nothing.” Has he spent too long in this role? Has he become complacent and lax in their relationship? It had to be the only reason. He shifts slightly, averts his gaze. “I… was looking at the stars.”

A poor excuse. He could not think of a better one. 

Elidibus would always weigh his words carefully before speaking. He would not be free to say what he wanted—as emissary, his remarks held an incomparable weight to those of others; now even moreso, as he spearheaded the work to restore the star to its original standing. 

“With such a scowl on your face? I shudder to think of what ill the skies have wrought upon you if you’re looking at it like  _ that. _ ”

_ Many things. Death, destruction—the unraveling of a world.  _

He knows his place. His role. Why he had separated himself from Zodiark; his entire reason for being, etched deep into his soul.

And yet a heavy weight settles in him the longer Elidibus is with the warrior, as he strives to carry out his objective. An uncharacteristic fluttering of nerves avails him when they look at him with eyes weary but still full of warmth. They talk of many things—and Elidibus often finds himself with words stuck in his throat and no means (no, no  _ reason _ ) to say them aloud. 

_ He is Elidibus, Emissary of the Convocation, and he will see his duty through—naught else mattered until the end.  _

He has come to know more about them than they do he, and yet the warrior has yet to show any qualms about it. They are patient, ever so patient—with others, with him. 

There is such a trust between them, the first stone laid when he had promised to help them with no intention of sentimentality on his part, but even now Elidibus cannot identify when exactly _that_ had gone awry. It had quietly transformed into something he could not quite quantify. 

Something he could not yet admit to himself. 


	9. prompt #9: lush (emet-selch/azem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [emet/azem]  
> azem, through the seasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m running behind lmao—but as much as i’d love to keep up i’m also in school so i’ll do as much as i can!

**spring.**

The Convocation meets often to discuss the events occurring around their star. There is always something going on, ranging from the minuscule to the too important to ignore. Such has it been for the past thousands of years, and so it would continue. 

They would deliberate, and discuss, and settle on the best course of action (or inaction, much to Azem’s chagrin.)

And sometimes— _sometimes_ —when Azem disagrees and sets their heart upon intervening, they have the wherewithal to actually let Emet-Selch know before setting off to take care of the issue. 

For whatever reason. 

“I’ll bring you back something nice,” Azem promises. 

“Do as you wish.” Emet-Selch had long given up trying to stop them from doing as they wished. At least this time they _weren't_ absconding with one of the other members’ concepts in their possession, so kindly given to them by one Hythlodaeus. “ _You_ are the one that will get reprimanded— _again_.”

They smile, brazen and bright, without any sense of shame. “So I will.”

**summer.**

In their absences, Hades works. And waits. And sometimes finds himself slipping into their office in various attempts to escape Hythlodaeus’ much too overbearing presence. Seeking him out for work, fine—but more often than not, Hythlodaeus wanted to stir up a little trouble and tease him to no end. 

_You seem a little despondent, Hades,_ Hythlodaeus had commented to him once, eyes alight with a mischievousness just enough to rival Azem’s. The two of them truly seemed to bring out the best and worst in each other. _At least, more so than usual. Having work troubles?_

 _Your proximity is headache-inducing,_ Hades responded, lifting his head to glare pointedly at his friend. 

Hythlodaeus chuckled, oozing such mirthful self-importance. _I have known you for too long, my friend, and you are far too easy to read—much as you try to hide it. You can admit that you miss them, you know._

And before Hades can respond, Hythlodaeus waves a farewell and takes off into Amaurot’s streets, towards the Bureau of the Architect, leaving him alone to wish the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

**fall.**

A familiar laugh reaches his ears as Emet-Selch makes his way towards the entrance of the Capitol. 

It rings out through the main hall, and Emet-Selch, normally content to leave before being roped into another time-consuming task or—heavens forbid—being set upon such tasks by Elidibus _himself_ , slows to a stop. 

Azem finds him first and waves in greeting—and a tension Emet-Selch didn’t seem to realize he had seems to suddenly lift from his shoulders. Hythlodaeus’ words echo in his thoughts.

_You can admit that you missed them, you know._

**winter.**

They present him a singular, vibrant flower, growing loud and tall and ever reaching for the sun. The smile on their face seems to match, and Hades finds that he cannot look away. 

“I promised, didn’t I?”


	10. prompt #10: avail (specific wol & emet-selch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> solais does not appreciate being scrutinized, thank you very much.

Emet-Selch frowns at him, his arms crossed and gold eyes barely veiling his disappointment. At what, Solais had no clue; it just seemed to be one of his more permanent expressions these days. That, and smug mockery. And then there was the occasional glimpse of _interest_ —sharp and piercing and only directed at _him._

Solais tried not to think about it. 

“You can do far better than _that_ , hero.”

Excess energy spent, Solais lowers his lance. His entire body hummed with a muted buzz, crowing at the rush of adrenaline from felling the large beasts that had lurked a few talks beyond the entrance to Slitherbough. It was a job he’d willingly undertaken, tired of being stuck in his own thoughts and stuck within the friendly roots and cave system of Slitherbough. He held no ill will towards the Night’s Blessed; they had housed Y’shtola all this time, after all, but _sitting_ and _waiting_ had never been one of his strong suits. 

Especially after Emet-Selch’s revelation.

“I did not think this a test of your self-administration,” Solais responds, locking eyes with the Ascian. The beasts slain and a nuisance no more, he settles himself against a nearby root, large and sturdy enough to rest for a spell. “Have you an issue with the lack of beasts roaming about now?

Now that he had stopped moving, his whole body had begun to _ache_. And while he’s had his fair share of injuries and wounds, and running himself ragged until he could move no longer, this was different. Solais could not help but recall the way he was sure he had heard something _crack_ upon absorbing the malignant aether or the Ravel’s Lightwarden. It—and the aether he'd absorbed from Holminster Switch and Titania—were affecting him in a way he could not accurately describe, he's come to realize. 

It ate at him. It writhed and thrashed under his skin. It clawed at his ribs and wanted _out._

“Far from it,” Emet-Selch says, gesturing lazily at him with a hand. “I’m very grateful, in fact; their awful noise was getting in the way of my nap earlier. No, I was referring to your _body_.”

Solais blinks at him, a little perturbed. “What about it?”

“You’ve nary had a rest since our little historic excursion and subsequent retrieval of your brave friend from the Lifestream. And while others may think you are near invincible, you are in fact subject to all the pesky flaws that come with mortality.” Emet-Selch smiles at him, cold and pointed. “Right, hero?”

Solais ignores the crawling uncertainty spreading across his arms in the form of gooseflesh. He had little doubt—no, he was absolutely _certain_ —that Emet-Selch had a better understanding of his affliction than he himself did. The thought was unsettling. What kind of advantage would that give him, come the end? A light frown tugs at his lips as he stares at him. “And since when do you care about my wellbeing? You do not consider me to be ‘alive’, after all.”

 _Unless that’s changed._

The smile seems to turn colder. “Yes, well, that _is_ true—but of all the broken beings on this shattered star, you remain the _only_ one worth my utmost attention.”

Solais doesn’t respond, at first. Something intrinsic linked him to the Ascians, and they to him. Hydaelyn and Zodiark being primals surely was part of that ‘something’. And as much as he had come to acknowledge their inevitability to clash with one another, it did not make him appreciate the current situation any more than he did when Emet-Selch had first approached him and the Scions in the Crystarium. 

“I assume that was supposed to be a compliment,” he finally says, giving the Ascian a look. 

“I have nothing but high expectations for you, is all.”

The sooner they saved the First—the sooner they confronted Emet-Selch—the better. 

Solais gets to his feet, all too ready to leave. “I care little about what you think of me, nor about what you wish me to be,” he says, his voice measured. He spares a quick, distrustful glance at the Ascian before turning towards the path leading back to Slitherbough. “And I would suggest you temper such expectations lest you be sorely disappointed.”

“Hmph. Such honest cynicism for one who has accomplished so much in the eyes of near everyone you’ve met,” Emet-Selch replies. “It’s what I like most about you, hero. But you and I both know what failure means in this instance, do we not?”


	11. prompt #12: tooth and nail (zenos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in another timeline, zenos finds out the warrior of light is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warning for brief mention of suicide/suicidal ideation!**

It is not another warrior’s steel or magicks that takes his life, nor even the unanticipated might of a malevolent eikon he was sent to slay. 

No, it is nothing but the cowardly wickedness of a manufactured blight that no one, not even the famed eikonslayer, could shield themselves from.

_Too late, once more, to ensure his hunt continued—_

And now his only reason for being, the quarry that he had once more set his sight upon after the gift of death was denied him, was _gone_. A candle snuffed and tossed aside before its time. And unlike him, it would not be lit again. 

The news had reached his ears just as he had made it to the capital. Zenos had stood still and quiet on the corner of a street illuminated by streetlights for a long, long time, his original reason for coming back to Garlemald briefly overshadowed. He had ruminated over it, attempting to wrap his head around such… such terrible news. Sounded it out, even, as if speaking it aloud would make the unfamiliar and unbearable turmoil within his breast any better. 

_The Eikonslayer is dead._

He was no stranger to death—yet this, this was wholly different. It loomed over him like a shadow that he could not step out of. A familiar numbness had followed in its wake, no longer able to be held back by his unyielding determination to cross swords with his enemy, his friend. It settled deep and unshakable within him through familiar streets as he had found it within himself to continue on to the palace. Zenos would claim his body from the soul that resided within it, and then… and then… 

(He had tried death once, and it had not stuck. 

Would a second time be any different?

Or would he truly be forced to live in a world without the eikonslayer to make it less dull, less meaningless?)

His father had not— _could not_ —understand what exactly he had taken from him. 

_Spoiled princeling_ , he had called him. The hot fury in his eyes had been practically tangible, even as he labored to breath with a broken piece of a sword pierced through his abdomen. _Garlemald would languish into nothing underneath your rule._

A good thing he had no intention to take the throne, then. 

And his father—oh, his poor and foolish father, blinded by desire for overarching subservience—had looked upon him with eyes wide and stricken with terror as he finally, _finally_ realized that the one thing Zenos had wanted was the furthest thing from what he had thought.

Zenos had felt nothing as he had struck him down with the broken blade, his father’s last breath as pathetic and sniveling as his weapon had been. To the last, his father had been a nuisance and now, it was _his_ meddling that had so forcibly taken that which he managed to find after years of a monotonous and limited existence. 

Another war would embroil Garlemald as various factions would vie for the empty throne. Let them fight. Let them kill. Let them descend upon one another like the beasts they were for such a menial title as ‘Emperor’—who would emerge victorious among them?

Who knows if he would be around to see it.


	12. prompt #15: ache (lyna)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lyna steels herself to see what remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m no longer writing these in order shfjgkh

It is some time before Lyna allows herself to ascend the steps to the top of the tower. 

As often as she had stared up at that large, otherworldly door with the comforting sounds of the Crystarium behind her, swearing to herself that today would be the day she would see it for herself—some part of her always held back. 

True, she knew what awaited her. She could surmise as much watching the Warrior of Darkness and their companions finally exit the tower, the skies a clear blue above them, without the Exarch.

LynA had known what he had given to ensure the Crystarium and Norvrandt would be able to continue on.

And even before their arrivals to their land, she had stayed quiet and watched as the crystal overtook him. She had watched the crystal wind its way around his body, slowly and inevitably consuming him, as he had always stayed true to his course… As a result, Lyna had always known it would be a matter of _when._

When would it take him away from her? When would it fix him to one last final spot, one last final movement, one last final thought?

Above all… how much time would she have left with him?

They had never truly talked of what they would do when it finally happened. He had always tried to allay her worries, told her that they would figure it out when the time came and that she should not worry about it when there were far more pressing matters to be concerned about. 

And Lyna had acquiesced, even though her heart ached with renewed pain every time she had to wake up and see another piece of him stolen by crystal. And though he never outright said it, Lyna knew him well enough to know that the idea of oblivion in crystal scared him as much as it did her. 

And now—

She inhales deeply. The door lay quiet and imposing before her. 

It was time. 


	13. prompt #14: part (generic wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remembering norvrandt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tried a journal style entry for this one but also lost steam thinking about all the places i’d have to talk about so... this is the result asfdjgkgk

It is time; at last, the end of yet another long journey is again here. Such peace, you know, is all too fleeting — the realm ( _realms_ now, you suppose) will always be in need of heroes to save it, and you and yours will always be there to rise up to meet the need for it. 

It is time to go — but first, you must set your affairs straight. It would be no good to abscond the shard that had become like a second home to you so quickly without saying your proper goodbyes. 

First, Il Mheg. The pixies cavort and wheel around you as you walk through the bright flower fields, laughing and smiling. Feo Ul themself had alighted upon the palm of your hand you had offered them. 

“Your unending journey will take you to lands and roads unforeseen,” they say, eyes warm and comforting. “But as you are my beautiful sapling, I shall be there with you all the while — through sleep or waking, I shall never be far away if you have need of me.”

“Which means —,” and here Feo Ul jabbed a finger at you, “Which _means_ you absolutely _must_ call me when you need me! No matter what! Even if you cannot speak! Understand?”

After a few more sincere assurances that you would (and starting to think of ways to call upon your friend if the power of speech _did_ actually leave you somehow), Feo Ul’s face brightens with a smile. They fly off the palm of your hand and zip around to hover in front of your face. They give your cheek a small pat before disappearing in a twinkle of light. “Safe travels, then, my most wonderful sapling! Your beautiful branch shall ever await your call.”

Amh Araeng, the Rak’tika Greatwood, Kholusia — as you retrace your steps on the journey past, a flood of memories and emotions overcome you. Reuniting with the Scions, meeting Ryne, overcoming the despondency the Sin Eaters and the Lightwardens had inundated Norvrandt with… even thinking about that relentless pursuer in that odd shoebill that had followed you around and finally, had made itself _quite_ comfortable in your suite made you crack a smile. 

You continue on; only a little more, and you would be on your way back to the Source. 

Within Amaurot, Hythlodaeus is nowhere to be found. Your search takes you all over the copied city but you still turn up nothing. A tiny slice of disappointment colors your heart — you had wanted to thank him, as well as say goodbye to him properly. 

Before you leave, you make your way to the cliffside from when you had first laid eyes upon Amaurot. The spires and buildings give off an ethereal glow. It is ever so quiet, ever so still, and your chest feels tight with a nostalgic sorrow that both feels familiar and foreign. 

And out of the corner of your eye, you see something that gives you pause. You squint — you swear you see a shade lift a hand in farewell — but you blink. 

It is gone.

Your personal quest finally alights you in the aetheryte plaza of the Crystarium. It is another clear day, the skies a vibrant blue above you, and there is an energy in the city that you could only describe as _hopeful._

It seemed only mere bells since you first traveled the rift, since you landed in a world blanketed in eternal light, wholly unsure of what to expect when you landed in a world opposite your own. 

This is where it had all begun — and where it had ended. You stare up at the Crystal Tower, the last words of Elidibus echoing in your mind, and the weight of the crystal of Azem in your possession inescapable. 

Tomorrow, a new day — one that would be filled with the known and unknown, one that would be colored with the memories of today and the days before it.


	14. prompt #16: lucubration (emetazem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> atlas was always seeking, seeking, seeking—until he found hades.

Hades was gifted with the sight, the ability to see all the twisting lines and winding paths of the Underworld and all life connected to it. The very hues that colored all beings and the aether they were composed of He had tried to describe it to Atlas once— _ tried _ being the key term here—and had knitted his eyebrows together in mild frustration as his words, his image fell short. 

“It is annoying,” he had finally said with sincerity, finding his hand amidst the lush grass and threading his fingers through Atlas’, giving his hand a soft squeeze. His eyes, a bright and brilliant gold, had narrowed in their characteristic way as they always did when he was concentrating on something—seeing what Atlas could not—before his expression had softened and his mouth teased into a smile. “But it makes it easy to pick out certain individuals in a crowd, if anything.”

“So  _ that’s _ how Hythlodaeus manages to scrounge you out when you decide to make yourself scarce,” Atlas realized, shooting Hades a look. It was never the other way around, because  _ Atlas _ was always the one seeking Hythlodaeus, who always seemed perfectly poised to reveal himself when he needed to. 

His mouth tugs towards a frown, a crease lining his forehead. “Unfortunately. And he is too  _ loud _ to ignore. Like staring into the sun.”

Of course—typical Hythlodaeus. A soul to match his intricacies.

And while Hades could  _ see _ and Atlas could not, the thrum of arcane magicks hummed beneath Atlas’ fingertips. He could  _ sense  _ it; the currents it traveled, the way it was drawn to people who were using it from the mundane to the intricate, the very power that blanketed every ilm of the star they lived upon. Like the magicks that created their robes, each was a thread that if he reached out and touched, he knew he could spool and form into  _ something _ — _ create _ . 

And, if he willed it, could unravel.

(A different sort of sight—but a sight, nonetheless. It was an ability so intrinsic to him, being able to feel the hum of the star, that he swore he often felt it  _ breathe _ beneath him.)

Still, Hades was the true sorcerer here; the threads converged and flowed around him in a way that it did not for most—even for Hythlodaeus—and if Hades truly needed it, they would gather and build and form him into a true image of his extensive power. A rarity among the Convocation, and even within Amaurot, it seemed; where Atlas had come from, he had no  _ idea _ such a thing was possible. 

Hythlodaeus had told him once, an off handed comment about the distinctness of his soul, but now Atlas wanted to hear it from Hades himself. “And me?” he asks, a simmering curiosity in his breast. “What color do you see as mine?”

Hades had looked at him then, quiet for a moment, and simply said, “Yours is a peculiar shade I could not find the words to describe, from when we first met to now. But,” he adds quickly, “it is easily recognizable. Hythlodaeus swears that he sees more tones than I.”

_ Distinct. Different.  _

“That means if I should ever be lost, you will have the means to find me,” Atlas says with a bright grin, forcing a crowd of unwelcome thoughts away. He tugs on a thread of aether, thinks, and a flower forms between his index and forefinger on his hand not entwined with Hades’ own. No trace of thorns line its stem. He brings the flower to his face and sniffs—not too overpowering, sweet and distinct; a flower he had come to admire in his travels around the star. 

_ Easily recognizable— _ just like him. 

“You’ve walked this world thrice over; how could you  _ ever _ become lost?” Hades asks, genuine bewilderment in his voice. 

“The  _ how _ matters not,” Atlas responds with a scoff. He points the flower in Hades’ direction. “It’s the  _ principle _ of the thing.”

“Well, then—yes, I would seek you out. Somehow. Or,” he says, a terribly clear note of warm certainty in his tone, “mayhaps we would just find our way to each other, anyway.”

Atlas hums. He had always been seeking, seeking, seeking—yearning to fill the ache in his chest since he was young. Studied and practiced until Amaurot was no longer a dream but a reality. Joined the Convocation, and sought out even more—more connections. More bonds. __

_ The Shepherd.  _

He who belonged everywhere, but nowhere. 

Except here, with—

He concentrates on the flower. It shimmers and winks into a scarlet butterfly, which he—and Hades, he notes—watches flutter up and away before it fades into motes of vibrant light. “I know that we will,” he agrees, a smile on his lips. “Wherever I go, you are awfully keen to follow.”

“If you didn’t cause half as much trouble for the Convocation—you _ and  _ Hythlodaeus—I would have no need to pluck you from the open maw of oblivion you are fond of barreling straight into.”

Beneath him, the star hummed. The threads shimmered and danced. The thin spool that connected him to Hades, and Hades to him—so light and thin, like the gossamer of a spider’s web—catches Atlas’ eyes. Often he’d wake up and think it gone, snapped and lost, only to find it gleaming strong and true. 

They share a breath of a laugh, and the stars above seem to wink with mirth alongside them. 

But even without such a connection, Atlas figured he would be able to find Hades again.

(Seeking and seeking and seeking, until what he’d lost was found again.)


	15. prompt #17: fade (emet & wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emet-selch wants to learn more about the fragment of atlas that is solais.

And this is why, even beneath the dark skin and white scales and that splash of freckles across his nose and honed muscle, pared down to the barest lick of _that soul_ he would recognize from a malm away—

The Source’s hero could _not_ be him. 

_Wasn’t_ , in any sense of the word. Fragments were fragments—little pieces of a larger picture, and not much else—and thus held little likeness to their true selves. Oh, he and Lahabrea— _and Elidibus,_ he corrected himself, for Lahabrea was _gone_ —could raise a fragment and make them remember but they would still not be their _true self._ Memories did not an individual make; it was a strong part of it, yes, but further still was the personality. 

“You’re staring,” comes a careful voice, measured and clipped and each word so carefully chosen he truly wondered if he was merely choosing canned responses from his head. 

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re getting stage fright, hero. I am _observing,_ ” he replies, waving his hand dismissively, “as I said I would.”

The slightest hint of frustration crosses Solais’ features before it smooths back into rigid complacency. This one was so _careful._ He let his guard down around the Scions—yes, Emet-Selch had observed that smile that had lifted his normally sharp features into something resembling _warmth_ and had much disliked how his heart had ached at the unavoidable similarity of it—but around others, held himself as he were expecting a sword through his back. 

Around Emet-Selch, it was as if interacting with a stone fortress; nigh impenetrable and on high alert. 

But Emet-Selch had cut and carved nations into brilliant jewels and had shattered them just as easily—a person would still be _easier._

A flicker of animosity in pale blue eyes. His words—still so careful, still so _deliberate_ —carry the weight of the bite he’s taking great pains to hold back. “Observe _elsewhere._ ”

“I am interested—,” Emet-Selch starts, pointedly ignoring his demand and smiling inwardly at the annoyed twitch he receives for it, “I am interested in your thoughts.”

Solais blinks at him. Narrows his eyes. The fire between them leaps and snaps. 

“About?”

“A great many things,” he continues. Atlas, too, had hid his storm of thoughts—but behind a smile and mischievousness, rather than a cold glare. Emet-Selch makes a point to tap the side of his head. “You hold it all up here, and do what with it? Consider this an invitation to give voice to your concerns without fear of judgement.”

He could practically see the distrust, large as the shadows of the trees they were sheltered under, as it forms itself into one clipped and icy word he was expecting: “Why?”

_Why not?_ Emet-Selch wants to quip back, but instead he splays his hands wide in a show of measured deference. “I’ve offered my knowledge to you—”

A pithy reply, said under his breath but picked up by Emet-Selch all the same, “How _kind_.”

“—and am merely curious in turn. Surely you understand.”

The truth, honest and bare, even if Solais did not pick up on it. He _was_ interested. Interested if Solais was everything his comrades dressed him up as, in everything the Exarch believed he was, in everything that Hydaelyn Herself had seemed to have seen when picking him to be Her chosen sword. 

If it truly was Atlas—or a piece of him—that looked at him with eyes unseeing and head poisoned by the words of the Mothercrystal...

(Had it been a fluke, a cruel twist of fate that in this era of all times they would be at each other’s throat, dallying around the table of death—?)

Solais holds his gaze, expression unreadable, and the night melts into sound. The crackle of the fire. The soft chatter of the other Scions. Leaves rustling in the wind, night creatures roaming in the underbrush, the soft and steady pulse of the forest itself. 

A quiet, star filled night. 

And Emet-Selch was about to consider his proposal foregone when he catches movement. 

Whether it’s the fire lulling him into something barely scratching the surface of comfort or the tumult of thoughts Emet-Selch had come to see incessant and unyielding behind pale blue eyes begging to be let out or the very nature of this strange predicament they found themselves in, Solais _folds._

Quiet, nearly unnoticeable—as is _everything_ about him—his shoulders loosen and he exhales and he looks somewhat like a person, rather than a perfect construct of everyone’s idea of a hero. Even his hair seemed less immaculate. Funny that. 

“What do you wish to know?” He seems to remember who he is speaking to, and adds, “Within reason.”

_Nothing extreme,_ comes the unsaid addition. 

That was fair. Besides, there were many other ways to pick up information about such a hero; if not from his lips, from someone else’s. Someone much more keen to sing his praises. Emet-Selch angles himself forward, hands clasped together, a smile dancing on his lips. 

The hue of his soul flickers weak beneath cold, suffisive Light.


	16. prompt #18: panglossian (specific wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> before the second confrontation with zenos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a different wol... just for funsies and trying a different voice!!

Roche’s heart soars, and a light, warming excitement fills him rather than the gripping apprehension he thought he’d be overcome with at Yugiri’s suggestion of going after the viceroy and his underling within the early morning. 

Alone. 

And he had agreed without hesitating, agreed before she could speak of the dangers and ask him if he _really_ wanted to. 

_Of course,_ he had said, holding her gaze. _Of course, of course._

His fingers had itched as he had intently listened to her plan, the two of them tucked away in a more private corner of the House of the Fierce to talk. 

It would be the only chance they had. 

_We must kill him,_ Yugiri had murmured. 

Roche could do that. _Wanted_ to do that. Wanted to take back what Zenos had wrested from him with one monotonous, dismissive word. A slow smile had spread across his face—opposite Yugiri’s pursed lips and hard eyes—and they had separated to prepare themselves for the bloodshed to come. 

They were well and truly going to _do it._

It was foolish, a death wish, a decision colored by emotion rather than logic—those and a thousand more warnings filtered through his head—and he _knew_ and he didn’t care. Just wanted to _do._

The humiliation he had been dealt—and with it, the dark, violent _other_ that had settled in his chest—would be returned hundredfold. 

(Roche was not _pathetic._ Not now, not ever—

And he would prove it.)


	18. prompt #19: where the heart is (specific wol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _this is as close to home as he’ll ever be._

He had left with no intention to return—had steeled himself to the fact that it would be unlikely he’d be back even by the end of his lifetime—and yet here he was. Warm water lapping at his ankles as he stood quiet and still in the shallows, the Ruby Sea glittering before him as it had all those summers ago when he had first left.

_Isn't it funny how you don’t know how much you miss something until it’s just out of your reach?_

A twinge of yearning, sharp and deep, that he quickly smothers. It wouldn’t be possible.

 _Wouldn’t_ —

 _Couldn’t_ —

 _Shouldn’t_ —

A twinge of guilt—his parents most likely thought him dead, same as his brother.

_But it’s better that way, isn’t it?_

Behind him, jagged peaks of the mountains beyond cut imposing silhouettes against the dusty orange of a familiar sunset. 

It is, perhaps, the closest to home he’ll ever be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i return. sort of aksbaksjdj


End file.
